


The Undead and the Dying

by ThatSoChangeableChick



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood: Lost Days, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Food Issues, Gen, Liberal Usage of Author's Headcanons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11236107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSoChangeableChick/pseuds/ThatSoChangeableChick
Summary: He died and was resurrected. The rest of the undead world followed suit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> Announcement 1: I really like this AU. I realized I kept becoming bored with what I wrote, so I threaded in tactics I use for original works and it really - I repeat, really - worked. I can safely declare there will be more of this. 
> 
> Announcement 2: Other than the above-mentioned, I am studying for a huge University Entrance Exam and it's sucking a lot of my time, so stories are limited to those that real flow. Less work and more play.
> 
> Announcement 3: I will be making an art blog, either this week or next week. The few hot-for-press works are Batfam, so, if you like it then keep your eyes peeled. I will be making an announcement with the rest of the info at a later date!
> 
> After all that! I had to do something for Bat Fam Week, so...Enjoy!

You bash one brain in and abruptly, it's free season. The zombies come out to haunt and the humans, with the living brains in their head, well, run for their lives. At least, that's the jest of zombie movies and video games and stories, and the lot. When it comes to the living dead, there really is only a single plausible outcome.

But Jason Todd never believed in plausible.

He spent the majority of his preteens in a book. Before that, in the true life of a Gothamite. What is plausible and possible to Jason Todd, is not plausible and possible to everyone else. And visa, versa.

So, a structure-shattering, populicide zombie apocalypse had happened. But, it really wasn't the end of the world.

He woken from his coffin like all the other poor bastards, somehow survived the claw-out phase, which not everyone did btw. It left a lot of post-mortem rigid stiff hands poking out the muddied earth, excellent can holders to be honest.

To describe the world itself is a rather large task. It's a hand-to-hell wasteland but Gotham had always been that, despite the flashing neon lights in Viagra signs. Now, the lights flickered and people who remained wandered, bodies littered the streets, ransacked vehicles splattered in bodily fluids. It was a lot emptier than it should've been.

Gotham had a life to it. Once.

He thinks.

To be frank, the before and after is just conjecture. He is Jason Todd. He was dead. If he wasn't, everyone else would've swallowed him whole. If he wasn't, his skin wouldn't be a pallid, deathly shade of what it definitely should've been. He must have woken from his coffin and been found, by people – the people from before they became the living dead – because his first memory is finding a hospital ceiling above and faint shuffle of moving corpses in the hall.

Since then, he has wandered.

And not to mislead, he has also eaten human brains. Not the high-grade, million-dollar, diamond-incrusted, organically grown brain that was probably abundant at the start of this fiasco. But, crushed frontal lobes and the smaller brain in the back, that larger hands couldn't reach.

He would describe the texture as overwatered, and somehow rubbery, oats. And, he'd describe the taste as _bleh_. On the other hand, it felt really – and he meant really – nice. It felt like home. If he had one. It felt familiar, comfortable in his stomach; a confidence and stability holding his back straighter and his sights clearer. Yeah. Brains were good.

It is a harsh sunlight out and to this, his preference is feline behavior. It includes lounging on a partially caved-in roof, only accessible by fractured windowsills and wonky support beams. It could also be a ditch attempt to regain a familiar color.

In the process of happily grumbling and achingly stretching a stiff ankle, he is disturbed by a loud clatter in the dead silence. In all likelihood, it's another wandering stiff but somehow, it doesn't feel like that. He lifted his head and peered over the edge – yep definite movement in a locked store opposite – and that's what's different…a smell.

This definitely smells ripe; a stench of fresh meat.

For a very miniscule moment he contemplated his next action but honestly…what does fresh meat even look like? Most dead brain holders look a little like zombies. Except further ravaged and bloodied and their bodies still contorted in fear. In all comparison zombies have a rather peaceful distribution.

Fresh meat is, altogether, a new ballpark.

With this is mind. He crawled to the roof-edge, shimmed and toppled down the wall, shuffled the last few curves to reach the alleyway outside, and halted. In all effectiveness, the business of going down took far longer that it should've and the street was quiet. But, in the distance, a lone zombie limped around a corner and there aren’t any other bets out.

On a flat surface, it's really quick to turn the bend, trail the fear-spiked stench and starved rumble of zombies into a darkened side-street. Even if the zombie apocalypse hadn't happened, attempting to escape assailants in a darkened side-street wouldn't haven ended well. Like, in all fairness, they were probably blocked by hoards of the dead but still…

Fresh Meat isn't the brightest.

In a final footfall, Jason was just in time to catch a small humanoid bungee up a thick bricked wall and vanish over the other side. The hoard of his people left to shuffle and grumble in a dead-end alleyway, which seriously? Seriously? It's just a twenty feet foot wall.

He is dead. He can say it. His people didn't utilize their alive-lives for anything remotely useful to the zombie apocalypse. Of course, in comparison to how it should've felt, clambering up that wall is difficult – all rotten and mucus gray muscle – but he can still do it. The dead mid-teen can do it and full-grown adults cannot.

…what had the world come to?

He savored a huff over that. Like a zombie to fresh brain, he followed the stench to where it twisted and convoluted, half-vanished and reappeared. Fresh Meat walked a lot and walked fast and walked really far. Despite how he hadn't walked this far from Gotham before, it felt familiar. Like, the fact that Jason is a Gothamite. Or, that brain is a fond set in his stomach.

Or, that itched hunger in his throat.

Out in picture-perfect fields littered in strewn, brain-blown out bodies the Fresh Meat bolted. Right towards a massive huddle of starved zombies, who definitely hadn't swallowed down liquified brains in a while. His ribs clenched but no sound escaped, Fresh Meat would die. Except they didn't, swerving in a darkened hoodie and launching through a window of a fort.

Soon replaced by a hefted barrel that imploded five zombies in a bloodied smear. He hit the ground, breathed in tall grass and flinched at a screeched explosion. Guess he found how Fresh Meat survived. His chest heaved and the itch intensified, scratched to his stomach. Zombies howled, guttural and starved.

His head burrowed into dirtied mud. Hunger was better than death...well, final death. His lungs stressed and it hurt, implosion after implosion followed by shorter hammer-falls and yelping zombies, heaps smacked to earth. The jackhammer implosion had finished, short static explosions continued – louder and louder. His eyes bulged in thought – not louder, but closer…

Picking off final victims.

Even starved zombie began to flee – well, a few – struck down by lone humans with rifles and shotguns. He had to flee. Before it was too late. Before it's his final death. That was not an option. He wanted to feel…a home. To feel brains.

He hovered on unsteadied feet, salvia in his mouth and terror screeched in his heart. If there is one truth on this earth. It's that he's always been a coward. So, Jason Todd bolted. He abandoned gurgled and infuriated shrieks, the imploded gunfire and just survived. It's what he did. Even when everyone else didn't want it.

In a single, long-stretch sprint, barefoot bashed into boulder and he crumpled, tumbled down a short hill and rolled into a crackled road. That absolutely sucked. His heart thundered – more alive, than it had right-to-be – and the world spiraled, focused on a stark puff overhead. It looked peaceful, floating above the strolling decayed corpses.

Perhaps, a zombie apocalypse is a vacation the world needed.

Behind a mauled scarlet hatchback, a zombified teen questioningly gurgled. His senses kicked in like a match to flame, and sweet stench of fresh fruitiness wafted in besides an audible crunch of gravel. He had been followed. His stomach clenched and he tightly swallowed – expected a trap, the point-fire explosion of the zombie-killer – but, the gravel twisted again. And, his stomach squeezed.

His lids pinched and in a beam of dusk sunlight, there was a man. An actual human man. His features blotched in shadows, lean rifle, heavily layered and dark, thick hair. Expunged from trace stiffness, steadied and loud and _alive_. In an aspect, Jason wouldn't be able to fake for his undead-life.

…what would a golden-prized brain feel like?

His zombified companion also questioned and launched, snarled attack and rifle clattered. Fresh Meat. It was only a few feet, fresh meat wrestled, wholly occupied with snapping teeth above him and zombified strength. His zombified companion clawed and yelped, renewing effort to sink teeth into the fresh meat's cheek.

In a barely-there, minuscule millisecond he felt it:

Familiarity.

Dick.

His natural retort to this is to tackle his zombified companion, heave by muddied sweater and repeatedly slam into hard concrete. In a dazed fright, the teen died, stark light fled quick but not altogether painless, and Jason's fists shook. He'd killed this teen for…

His skin prickled, stomach shuddered at the overworked barrel of a lean rifle. It was outright demented to remove his eyes from the weapon but, he did. He's dead; laws shouldn't apply after death. Behind the lethal weapon a Dick crouched, all clenched jaw and determined but looking for hope.

He looked vaguely zombified, not in the undead-sense, but in the might-as-well-be-dead sense. He'd become older, more jaded against his better intentions, sea-stormed blues tormented in constant fight-for-survival. His yellowed bruises had purplish bruises, odd scrapes and bandage wrapped hands; lean sinewy muscles beneath.

...a zombified world, obviously, wasn't for everyone.

On this cliffside, it be either a boot freefall to jagged rocks below. Or, an outstretched hand in a promise for a new direction. It should've been obvious, which he'd preferred, but it really wasn't – as previously depicted by his undeadness, even if he was drop-kicked off a cliff; he'd survive – the former was common. Standard.

To consider the latter seriously, is terrifying.

Of course, Dick had to be a dick. He licked dried mouth, lowered the lethal rifle and lifted his hands in surrender. It seriously sucked. The rifle hanging dejected, a faint breeze tickled and Jason folded in, protected the ache in his stomach. Dick swallowed and ever-so baby-soft delicately, whispered: "…Jason?" Look at this asshole.

Dick knows it's him. It's not as though speaking-up, frothing-at-the-mouth will confirm it. His fingers wandered into purplish, lukewarm blood and he nibbled, then snacked, then cracked zombified brain to eat the remnants. The familiar comforts a hollow fondness.

His feverish teals never left the sea-stormed blues.

This is a life-and-death test. Once in a living-life and undead-life's chance. If Dick truly wished to dangle fresh brain before a starved zombie, then nobody could dictate that Jason refused to scare him off. This is him. Jason Todd. He's not a real-boy. Not anymore. He refused to hide that.

In way of hope, the world's laws aren't administered. It's one of his once-adoptive brother's huge, death-goading habits. Dick's shoulders deflated, mouth quirked in a hesitant smile. He still looked tormented. One of these days it'd get Dick killed.

But like a fine zombie-boy, he kept his mouth shut and ate brains.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have given up. I've actually finished the first arc. I'm just in the process of revising it, and things are subject to change, but I did want to get another chapter out to yall to prove this ain't dead - ;) (i̶m̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶)  
> Have fun :D

His limbs worked and his teeth hadn't fallen out but this was still a nightmare. His once-adoptive brother grimly smiled, pressed a finger to his mouth and waved a hand. No. It didn't matter that Dick didn't reek. His hell-forbidden outlook was enough and Jason would eat him. How did Dick not understand this? Zombie-Boy – Human Brain, Human Brain – Zombie-Boy. Even full-dead Jason knew this. "…come on, little wing…" Dick hushed.

Stalker.

He didn't dignify that with a gargle. Instead dead-end stare compacted behind limbs, burrowed further into moist cardboard and scratched brick wall. The likelihood of being blissfully left to rot was low, Dick didn't trek to the heart of Zombie Town for a playdate. Or, a heart-to-blue-heart. But he didn't trust this would end well.

"Little Wing –"

He flinched and smashed skull into brick wall, Dick sympathetically hissed. Even though this was all his fault. Jason glowered, dead-eyed, dream-chased and prodded the tenderized dip in his skull. Fuck. That wasn't good, was it? It didn't hurt that bad. "…sorry," was he really? If he was, then why the fuck was he still here? "Let me check that, somewhere where we can talk," he insisted.

Jaw drooped and gargled: '… _you mean where you can talk_.' Instead of a voice, it was a cross between a compounded face-fart and an animalistic blubber. His once-brother's brows dipped, as if he finally realized what creature stared him in the face, and still – despite all facts, warning signals and rational sense – his mouth twitched: "Oh, come on. I've got chilidogs~" was the sing-song.

Fine. Fine. _Fine_.

Despite liability to grouchily protest and his teeteringly shuffle five feet behind Dick. None of it harassed Dick, a spring positively in his stead. Overall, it would suck if Dick was living-dead but, there's a minute likelihood that it'd halt the cheery sunlight in each footfall, and it might be worth it. His head tilted, jaw unhinged to find the back of Dick's sun-kissed black hair. It's the zombie apocalypse, conditioners probably a rare valuable – even here Dick is well-off.

_Bastard!_ He really wanted to yell.

Instead he shuffled tiniest-bit faster, fell behind Dick's side, snuffled at the darkened side-streets, and blinked in the crimson-stark brightness of sunlight. His sea-stormed blues were potent, "…back at base," Dick indulged, "We figured that the sunlight hurt zombies. But no, you're just tired, aren't you?" his mouth quirked. Once upon a time, it had hurt. Like, skin-burrowing flush from throat to gut and stark bleach behind lids.

Now he yawned blood-speckled teeth, uncoordinatedly flicked off an insect and basked in sunlight. It was earlier than he usually roamed, heat prickled but it felt alive; a faint sensation of breath and warmth. Other zombified fellas didn't follow them out from sheer laziness. Only torment halted the hunt against starvation, so was he different, comforted beneath the sun?

Here was a flesh-gorging-kid in daylight, except…

It's just Dick. Once upon a time, he studied the tanned, absently dimpled skin, tried to understand what the forever-exuberant kid had that he failed to find. His heavily-lashed blues, free and confident in stance, graceful in honeyed depth. At a certain point, he'd hated Dick. For being unattainable, impossible to match; for being absent when life hurt.

That head didn't stubbornly wrap treats from wayward hands. It wasn't food. It was Dick. From dirt-caked boots to thick, dried hair. The man who'd had it all and still bailed. In fact, he kind of still hated Dick. Said asshole attempted to poke a zombie, "What you thinking about in there, Jay?" On instinct, he swerved and scowled. Endless interaction did not make a mute zombie intelligible.

His retort, full-frontal frustration; is accepted with a wry smile.

This 'somewhere where we can talk' turned out to be a remote, murder cabin. It might've been a bungalow at some point, but the location; square feet from Gotham's outskirts, sparsely littered by thin trunks, and a filth-rampant creek that gushed down harbor; decimated that pleasant dream. If the apocalyptic crisis had skidded for the worst and Dick had become a psycho-axe-wielding-murderer; at least, he was already dead.

Dick actually had the rifle for it.

"I know. I know. But, short notice, limited option alright." This asshole trotted forward and unlatched the weighted wood, door buckled and shrieked. His once brother winced and vanished into the darkened, wooden interior… and he, in his zombie-glory, simply slouched. Inside, something cluttered: "You coming in for chilidogs, or what?" His irritating face poked out, "Do you want me to come outside?"

His mouth – uncoordinated and intelligible as it was – is still fully capable of blowing a grumpy raspberry.

His once-brother chortled a vague choke and ducked inside, a dim heat flickered to existence inside. "I promise it's better than it looks," he murmured amidst clatter and sang-song: "It's Alfred's recipe~"

Alfred. Alfred. _Alfred_.

The kind grandfather in impeccable tailed suits, firm and unrepentant, solid and stable, and always – always, freaking no matter what – always there. His scuffed bluish foot creaked on wood and Dick, caressed in warm light, blinked. His somewhat startled incomprehension didn't truly register as Jason mouth wordlessly worked. His brother's head tilted and stepped forward, dried his hands on a towel as a pot simmered below. "…do you remember Alfred?" Dick tried.

His throat silently bobbed, head followed suit. His once-brother actually smiled, vacant compared to sunny-side-up he'd preferred in snapshots, but there all the same. Perilously close to having his back clapped, he shuffled past the round kitchen table, fumbled on a door handle and peeked inside. It was a bathroom. "The other door is the bedroom," Dick helpfully supplied. His arms folded, leaning back; casually watchful.

Yeah. He noticed the holstered knife on Dick's belt. Had Dick actually utilized that knife? He slyly squinted at the holster, it didn't overflow blood. He shook his head and unlocked the bedroom, it had a thin one-and-a-half bed beside a barred window, a threadbare mat and a bedside table. His lids narrowed because what exactly did Dick expect here?

"There –" his once-brother chimed and poured out a bowl of chili. It plodded onto the table, " – get it while it's hot."  It took holding a spoonful in his hand for the smell to hit – "What?" Well, what did Dick think? What had Jason thought? He'd magically be a real boy and be able to swallow none-brains down. It smelled of a distant familiarity which should've comforted, been delicious but it also churned his stomach. Every single cell said not to eat it but, he'd loved this and Jason wanted to know what he missed.

He laid a spoonful on his taste tester and chewed.

It returns for a second attempt as he heaved and trembled in the bushes outside, upchucking the not-previously human and instead of that warmth, shame burrowed and rage gnawed at his teeth. He'd done it for hope, the same astronomically demented hope that'd brought him to follow Dick. Except, had he really believed he could have that life back?

Even when it hadn't really been his life in the first place, had he really expected it to his life now? He is an actual corpse, a literal dead-kid. No more than an empty shadow of what he'd been before, and that _alive-kid_ hadn't belonged to the lovely life on the picture-perfect hillside!

"Hey –" Dick began, a hint of piteous comfort and Jason snarled. It ached as Dick flinched and kept distance but it also felt right, felt natural. This was undeath. He wasn't a numbskull and he wouldn't play pretend to wind up head caved in – not another fucking time. He hadn't belonged in that old world and he definitely didn't belong in it now. With an audible thud, Dick fell to his knees. It's not a strategically sound position against a brain-eating zombie. "It was worth a try, Little Wing. You're not like the others out there –"

Was he more special? Luckier; then the average trash-rat? Yeah fucking right.

He snarled and launched, reveled in Dick's hiss as scraggily hands pinned an arm and wrapped at Dick's throat. His heart thundered and Dick flipped them, Jason shrieked – an echoed beacon he'd heard before but never uttered – and Dick clapped his hand on Jason's mouth. Then he swore, "You can't do that, Jase. It's only safe here while its empty, alright?" It's safe for Jason in a zombie-ridden wasteland, that happened as a zombie. And is this, fraternization with the enemy?

His teeth broke through thin leather and Dick hissed, yanked back; and Jason kneed and scrambled out. His once-brother chuckled and checked the wound, "…definitely gotten sharper," he murmured. He still wasn't terrified. He could be an undead for all he knew. Dick shook at his hand, "Don't look like that, Little Wing. You didn't turn me. Sure, it'll be infected for a few weeks but I'm still human."

Asshole, absolute asshole!  

Jason wouldn't hate it, if a single thing went wrong in Dick's life. For once. For equalities sake. At least, Dick shouldn't be so damn chipper. He's just been bitten by a rabid zombie, for fucks sake! His low growl pitched and Dick lifted hands in surrender – the wound dripped, blood red and gnarled. He did that. It'd be natural to showcase a little fear, why the hell wasn't Dick scared?

Was this his deluded perception of hope in play again?

He had wounded Dick! "Look, Little Wing. You can still stay here. Use this as home base, if you want. I know the situation looks bad, irreversible even but I promise you, Little Wing, this isn't the end. You're still my little brother," he insisted.

Jason wasn't though; he isn't – hadn't even been that little brother before, why did Dick believe now would be different? He does not recall the last time he cried, but with tears blurring his vision and a scratched latch in his throat; he hated it. Dick breathed: "Little Wing –" Made movement closer and Jason flinched, toppled backwards over pebbles before he gnashed his teeth in belated attack.

His storm-casted blues fastened but somehow softened. He lowered the surrender, folded his legs and settled opposite Jason on the dry-packed earth. Jason's heart thudded – it hurt – and Dick's shoulders relaxed: "I'm not going anywhere Little Wing," Dick murmured.

Jason instinctually shook his head – against Dick being there, against the idea; maybe – and burrowed behind his knees, tried to rationalize and process. There had been Alfred – once upon a time – and there'd also been Dick; but, there'd been others as well and it's blurred. It doesn't feel like his life. It feels like a dream, where some of the participants followed him in the living world: there is only an after-death, anything before that is null and void.

He can't understand.

He blinked and the sun had set, a dim-purplish hue steamed and Dick is still seated; a frozen life in his face, which creaks into a smile as Jason returned: "Hey there, Little Wing. Do you want to go inside? I can draw you a bath," Dick said. That doesn't make sense, why in fuck would he do that?

Jason lurched to a stand and Dick steadied, and Jason jumped at the soft pressure and Dick retracted his hand as he walked-in. Inside there is a thud, a hiss and a warm light flickered. It felt weird walking into a roofed structure, almost-claustrophobic – Dick hummed: "I think there might be a little hot water…" Sat the lone candle on the round kitchen table, and headed towards the bathroom.

It's dark inside the bathroom and there is no light apart from a small shuttered window, streaks of muddy purple inside. On the stove there's a small pot of cold curry, and a bowl on the kitchen table missing only half a spoonful. He frowned and looked outside; had he – yeah, he'd barfed it back. Wait, shouldn't he know that?

He ticked at a flush of water – closer than the turbulent stream outside – and saw Dick crouched beside the bath. That wasn't – the hell is he doing now? His mouth garbled and Dick lifted a head: "Hmm?" he asked, and Jason spluttered something animalistic and unintelligible. Zilch recognition: except what did he expect; someone with a swollen tongue and broke jaw is more intelligible.

He warbled again: " _… the fuck am I here, Dick?"_ Except, all that received is mild-confusion.

Dick left the bathroom, "If you don't want a bath that's fine," he said, which really grand assistance there, dickhead. His head tilted, "You do remember who I am, right?" Is this piss-off Jason time because vague patronization does that. Jason scowled and Dick huffed a little, hands flickered surrender and a fresh, bloodied wound winked at Jason before it vanished with a smile. His lungs began to hurt –

He tried: _"Did I do that?"_ But Dick was clueless, and Jason grabbed the wounded hand, shook it about and warbled again: " _Did I do that?_ " It's a rhetorical question, the blood is in his teeth and sickness perceived his stomach – there's flesh _missing_! And that had settled into his stomach so easily and it tasted better than –

For living-hells he really is a zombie. Like, he'd known – no denying that – but somehow, the fact refused to integrate into his life; his only purpose is a mild opposition to the adventure squad who might survive the zombie apocalypse, fuck! His head pounded –

And, Dick held his wrist: "…hey, it'll be alright, Little Wing. I was holding you down, remember? You were just defending yourself," he said. Like, it mattered. His stare must've communicated that because Dick's smile softened, all dirt-scuffed and wretched: "You've still got you golden-heart, Jason. I've missed you…" he admitted, and did the absolute imbecilic and pulled Jason into an embrace.

It was firm around the shoulders, allowed claws loose and free at Dick's soft and fleshy bits; and Jason seriously, truly and down-right-patting-ly wished to rebel. Prove Dick false. For once, just once. For equalities sake. But, it also felt…nice, kind and soft and also firm, and it settled his stomach more than it should've. The fruity stench filtered and it made Jason shake; he delicately held onto Dick's jacket as a firm hand rubbed his back.

"It'll be alright, I promise we'll find a way to make it better," he murmured above Jason's hair, squeezing him a little tighter before pulling back. He shouldn't promise what he didn't know for certain he could keep, the dickhead – is this his hope again, determination to see it though? His storm-casted blues sheen and the un-wounded hand flickered at Jason's forehead, cleared it of tufts: "I'm so glad your a…here, and the others, when they know we'll have a party – anything you want," he cheered.

He wanted to believe it and for that wish to actually be possible. But Dick had to know; why else then was it just them in this distant murder-cabin? His mouth twitched and he shut it down, stepped back and Dick ruffled his hair once before he headed into the bathroom to shut off the water.

As freaking always, the picture painted was nice but it wasn't reality. He is a zombie, brain-eating zombie; and all the begrudging affection left in the apocalyptic world didn't cut-it to fix the issue of Dick's existence as a meal-on-wheels. He shook his head and looked at the dusty murder-cabin, littered in old quilts and wooden everything apart from the gleam of the portable stove. This was a home for humans, not dead kids.

Dick hummed: "Are you going to come in before it gets cold?" he called, drying his hands on a towel and already on his way-out the door, and Jason beat him to it. Except he flat-out bolted through the front-door –"Jay?" – skedaddled into the forest, and ran to where the stench of zombies was strongest: "Jay!"

He is dead; better to internalize that before it becomes apparent by his feasting-on his once-brother's innards. He's doing this to protect that dickhead; he shouldn't sound so tormented.

His footfalls pitter-off at an abandoned dock with upturned trucks and crates, nightfall gleamed on metal and the lone living dead shuffle. He really should fall in line. And, that is Coolio, A++, O' natural. He'd need a hide-out – shook his body and his stomach twanged – maybe also a wash, against tracers which seemed like a likelihood to be honest. First, he steadied his heartbeat, held thin ribs and upchucked final remnants of flesh and what-might've-been the last traces of embalming fluid.

For a millisecond his death was abundantly apparent.

His subsequent spit and wipe cleaved a thin scratch over the back of his hand. For now – a loading crate would do to block signals. Keep the dickhead from doing anything demented, like follow him – again – into zombie central. In the morning, he'd find a stream, waltz on in and dry-out prune-like in the sun tomorrow. It's a plan, the best fucking plan.

He palmed perspiration off his forehead and shuffled forward, sea spitting its contempt every so often and something squawked, undisturbed by the walking dead. Inside an overturned crate, boxes spilled out – fancy garments; velvet and satin – and sequestered inside to lick his wounds. There is a skeletal-thin zombie with a neon vast and a ripped pink-velvet jacket further inside, who lifts his head as Jason quieted.

The zombie's nostrils flared, a faint snuffle, this desperate sheen that never meant danger to Jason, which sucks-assholes because he is snatched completely unawares as the zombie lunged and sunk into him bone-harsh teeth. He instinctually yowled, kicked and dislodged the living dead – because, both zombies here! In vicious and slightly-baffled vigor the zombie launched – course he didn't taste like food, he isn't!

Is the zombie off their meds, is this it? How is he not-surprised that he found the delusional zombie, huh. The zombie launched, knocked Jason out and he yelped – an instinctual beacon for back-up – as he bashed into the crate door, rolling-out in harsh concrete.

From crevices curious brethren wander-out, snouts snuffled and a familiar sheen – fuck. He'd called them to feast on his flesh, hadn't he? His demented zombie whined and stumbled out, and Jason shifted backwards – and dodged a clawed swipe at his throat. It is about here that he realized Dick infected him with human cooties and room to escape dwindles with ravenous zombies – so this, is how it feels on the other side?

His snarl yowled – a last ditch attempt at communication – and the undead rebutted, high-pitched and echoed. Great, another beacon for more zombies to feast on his flesh. See human cooties worked for Dick 'perfect' Grayson. It did not work for Jason 'dead' Todd. His heart thundered into high-pitched and fervent adrenaline, fists clenched.

Too much of a monster that even the living-dead rejected him, which really – it figured.

Other zombies stumbled curious and eager, and further off in staggered suspicion, with nonchalant steps forward. The closest undead lunged. His hiss yelped and teeth snatched, skidded from an outstretched claw and knew there's no reasoning with the living dead. He can still blame Dickhead for this; there's that. He topsy-turvy rolled off into the distance and fled.

Now, little fact about the living undead, much like a canine to a cat, or a cat to a cockroach; the smaller bolted and the larger followed without a doubt. Instinctual impulse is definitely an undead hallmark because Jason's try and beat the Flash. Run for his life, keep his brain in his head, the way he liked it.

All in all, there's something familiar in fleeing for his undeath and while ribs ached, throat clenched and thighs trembled – it was as close to life as he could receive. He ducked and bypassed, yanked and launched a torn _'Welcome to Old Gotham_ ' sign at the closest mouth breather, and barked laughter as the fellow undead toppled before his friends kicked up a hissy fit.

Something in his heart squelched at that but it didn't matter. Old Gotham has spiraled towers, snarling gargoyles and less undead than it should. It was desolated and abandoned, concaved skeletons lingered and without a minuscule doubt, he clambered atop a creaky and rustic fire-escape. Zombies skittered to a halt and howled, a pull to arms and Jason swallowed because over thirty voices lit the final lights. His own traitorous throat scratched to echo. He shook it off and snatched his dislocated ankle back, and just climbed.

In his final footfalls, he tipped into a sharp-angled puddle, tried to breathe and poked the flesh wound in his shoulder, little blood and purpled as per usual. Wind is a doll and tilted him onto the roof, so he crawled beside the rooftop entrance and breathed. In life before, the stars had never been that bright, had they? There's that, right. He huffed and absently thumbed a wonky rib, before he tucked into knobby knees.

Everything is fucked, in short. His survival game plan is literally evading civilization but then food…he did like food. Really, it didn't matter – can't swallow real-boy food and won't gorge on brains – bound to die out on that diet. He snickered a hot snort, thumbed his nostrils and then – in all his brightest survival instincts – noticed that golly-fuck he is abruptly not alone here.

His natural instinct is to be dead. But, she found his teals and will not relinquish. He is no good as a living undead, as evidenced by the rabid hunger for his flesh earlier, so into a perfect crouch the girl shuffled and considered. He flinched into brick wall like a scared alive kid. Then – weirdest bit today – she outstretched a fist and revealed bloodied, dirtied dimples in a bright grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know me at all, then who that is should be painfully freaking obvious [I love her so much]

**Author's Note:**

> ~feedback is greatly appreciated ~~*~


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